'Scuse Me, Your 'Stache is Showing

Hiya, my pretties.

I'm hanging with Burt today over here. Come play and see what scabies is all about.

In the Comments section, tell me if you've ever had scabies.

So Kool

Today, only after completing a trip to the grocery store and to Big Lots for a new jigsaw puzzle (high rolla!) did I realize that I had done my errands sporting a Kool-Aid mustache.



I took some (but not much) comfort in the fact that it wasn't actually Kool-Aid, but cranberry juice. I am, after all, going to be 28 years old on March 27, and Kool-Aid is for dumb kids.

My astrologer says that we need to be careful of any holiday that celebrates with candles; the candles are necessary to illuminate the darkness the occasion will likely bring.

I don't feel sad or upset another year's gone by; good things are ahead, of that I'm certain.

But, I am upset that not one single person had the decency to tell me that my face was painted in a permanent, scarlet grin. Bitches.

In the Comments section, tell me if you like jigsaw puzzles. I find them immensely calming and helpful for keeping romance and social invitations at bay.

Bean There, Done That

If you should ever find that you've accidentally spilled some broth from 16-bean soup on the floor of your car and think, "Meh, I'll just leave it. It's only broth from bean soup," well, friend, I hope you'll let me talk you out of that decision.

Wow. There's some stank in those little legumes.

In the Comments section, tell me what your favorite soup is.

Don't Spitzer Into the Wind

I feel like the wizened, yet senile, community elder who spouts off stories out of context just because she can, but here goes: Did I ever tell you about the time I served pasta to Air Supply?

Oh, I did?

How about my worst heartbreak?

You heard about that too, huh?

What about my boobs? Have I covered the amazingness of my boobs?

Shit. I'm running out of material.

I guess I'll take a dance move from Woodrow and ask ya'll what you want to know about. In meantime, I need your help:

What in the hell are these things?



I've been spending a lot of time out in the woods lately, trying to find myself, talking on my cell phone to Megan Jane and communing with nature, as it were. And every day, I see these creepy things poking out of the ground, mocking me. All twisty and turvy and speckled.

Help a sister out because they're giving me nightmares. In-exchange for your assistance, I'll share a little-known-fact about my-self.

Peep this: I don't really-know how to properly use hyphens. My-Pretties, I write for a living and I don't understand the laws regarding hyphens. Sometimes I put-them-in. Some-times, I don't. I mostly just guess.

It's a blow to my writer's-ego to be so deeply-in-the-dark about this. For the longest time, I've simply just nodded my head knowingly when someone said, "You're missing a hyphen."

My response was, "Yes, well, I can see why traditionally a hyphen might have been used. I suppose I'll just concede to the anachronistic punctuation rules this time," all the while simply trying to make sense of the murky grammarian code.

But, I tell you what: I'm first-class when it comes to semi-colons. (Now, I know a hyphen belonged there, right? ... Right?)

My boobs are also first class. Did I mention that?

In the Comments section, give me a hard and fast hyphen rule. Or just give me a hard and fast ... oh, never mind.